water, right?”
I flung the towel at his head.
He ducked and caught it. “Honestly, how do you manage?”
Plunking the pot onto the burner, I muttered, “Takeout.” I could hear him chuckling over the sizzling of the onion. “And careful selection of roommates.”
I watched him chop vegetables until the water came to a boil. As I slid the linguini into the pot I steamed my fingers, then bit back a yelp as I strode casually to the sink and ran cold water over my hand.
This was not the first time I’d been humiliated by my dysfunction in the kitchen. It made no sense to me—I was reasonably intelligent, and a quick study. Cooking was following step-by-step instructions. Any idiot could do that. But nothing I made ever tasted like I imagined it was supposed to. And anything more complicated than a baked potato (I ate a lot of them) left me covered with nicks and burns.
When I shut off the water, Murphy took my arm and guided me to the table, pressing me into a chair. He returned to the fridge for a bottle of wine, filling a glass and handing it to me.
“It’ll be ready in a minute,” he said with a wink.
“Oh, fine.” I rolled my eyes. “It’s not like I didn’t warn you.”
As I watched him finish the sauce with white wine, herbs, mushrooms, and cream, I couldn’t escape the feeling I was on a first date. What bizarre circumstances for a man and a woman—practically strangers, single, and close to the same age—to find themselves in.
“Okay,” said Murphy, as he came over with two steaming plates. I hopped up and grabbed silverware and napkins, and when I came back I saw that he’d set our plates on adjacent sides of the table rather than across. I sat down and he refilled our glasses.
“Sorry it’s just noodles and sauce. It’s time to go to the market again.”
I forked a mushroom and took a bite. “Mmm, you’re amazing at this. I’m jealous.”
I watched the pink stealing along those high cheekbones. “My mother is amazing. She worked as a chef in Dublin before she married my dad.”
“How did you all end up on a farm?”
Murphy looked surprised, and it occurred to me this was a rather personal piece of information to have on the tip of my tongue. I couldn’t think of a tactful way to explain I’d been reading up on him.
“We moved to the farm because my dad had a strange fascination with dairy cows.”
“And your mom?”
“She had a strange fascination with him . And he managed to convince her she wanted to make cheese.”
I smiled. “And babies. You have four sisters, is that right?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“And the photo on the wall in the laundry room—that’s your mother, with your aunt?”
Murphy nodded, his expression clouding.
“They look like they were close.”
“They were. But it’s been twenty years since she died.”
The easy, flirtatious mood that had prevailed during dinner preparations was evaporating. The problem being, of course, that there weren’t many topics we could discuss without brushing up against the troubling realities we faced. We focused on the meal, and a gloomy silence descended.
When we finished, Murphy rose to carry our plates to the kitchen.
“I’ve thought a lot about my aunt the last few days,” he said. “Especially about what happened to her.”
I watched him for a moment before answering. Did he mean the new Aunt Maeve, his ghost?
“I’ve thought a lot about her too.”
He returned to the table. “I wonder whether she’s still…”
“Alive?”
He nodded. “Assuming there’s been nothing calculated about it—that Lex was wrong about me having been targeted—”
“I don’t know that we can assume that.” Much as I might like to, I couldn’t discount an explanation with merit just because it made me uncomfortable.
“Perhaps not, but for the sake of argument. I’ve been thinking about what you’ve said about symbiotic relationships. There was little potential for a strong bond to develop
I flung the towel at his head.
He ducked and caught it. “Honestly, how do you manage?”
Plunking the pot onto the burner, I muttered, “Takeout.” I could hear him chuckling over the sizzling of the onion. “And careful selection of roommates.”
I watched him chop vegetables until the water came to a boil. As I slid the linguini into the pot I steamed my fingers, then bit back a yelp as I strode casually to the sink and ran cold water over my hand.
This was not the first time I’d been humiliated by my dysfunction in the kitchen. It made no sense to me—I was reasonably intelligent, and a quick study. Cooking was following step-by-step instructions. Any idiot could do that. But nothing I made ever tasted like I imagined it was supposed to. And anything more complicated than a baked potato (I ate a lot of them) left me covered with nicks and burns.
When I shut off the water, Murphy took my arm and guided me to the table, pressing me into a chair. He returned to the fridge for a bottle of wine, filling a glass and handing it to me.
“It’ll be ready in a minute,” he said with a wink.
“Oh, fine.” I rolled my eyes. “It’s not like I didn’t warn you.”
As I watched him finish the sauce with white wine, herbs, mushrooms, and cream, I couldn’t escape the feeling I was on a first date. What bizarre circumstances for a man and a woman—practically strangers, single, and close to the same age—to find themselves in.
“Okay,” said Murphy, as he came over with two steaming plates. I hopped up and grabbed silverware and napkins, and when I came back I saw that he’d set our plates on adjacent sides of the table rather than across. I sat down and he refilled our glasses.
“Sorry it’s just noodles and sauce. It’s time to go to the market again.”
I forked a mushroom and took a bite. “Mmm, you’re amazing at this. I’m jealous.”
I watched the pink stealing along those high cheekbones. “My mother is amazing. She worked as a chef in Dublin before she married my dad.”
“How did you all end up on a farm?”
Murphy looked surprised, and it occurred to me this was a rather personal piece of information to have on the tip of my tongue. I couldn’t think of a tactful way to explain I’d been reading up on him.
“We moved to the farm because my dad had a strange fascination with dairy cows.”
“And your mom?”
“She had a strange fascination with him . And he managed to convince her she wanted to make cheese.”
I smiled. “And babies. You have four sisters, is that right?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“And the photo on the wall in the laundry room—that’s your mother, with your aunt?”
Murphy nodded, his expression clouding.
“They look like they were close.”
“They were. But it’s been twenty years since she died.”
The easy, flirtatious mood that had prevailed during dinner preparations was evaporating. The problem being, of course, that there weren’t many topics we could discuss without brushing up against the troubling realities we faced. We focused on the meal, and a gloomy silence descended.
When we finished, Murphy rose to carry our plates to the kitchen.
“I’ve thought a lot about my aunt the last few days,” he said. “Especially about what happened to her.”
I watched him for a moment before answering. Did he mean the new Aunt Maeve, his ghost?
“I’ve thought a lot about her too.”
He returned to the table. “I wonder whether she’s still…”
“Alive?”
He nodded. “Assuming there’s been nothing calculated about it—that Lex was wrong about me having been targeted—”
“I don’t know that we can assume that.” Much as I might like to, I couldn’t discount an explanation with merit just because it made me uncomfortable.
“Perhaps not, but for the sake of argument. I’ve been thinking about what you’ve said about symbiotic relationships. There was little potential for a strong bond to develop
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